


Closing the distance

by JPeterson



Series: Stirring [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Asexual Character, F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:38:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4455128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPeterson/pseuds/JPeterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right.” A scoff. “Because the whole Herald, Inquisitor and Fadewalker business just hasn't quite managed to fill up my quota of abnormality.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing the distance

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted [here](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13890.html?thread=56045890#t56045890) as a k-meme fill, but I've made some small changes where a word or two halted the flow of the story. To my eyes, anyway.

It says quite a bit about the growth of the Inquisition that in a castle as large as Skyhold, peace and privacy are hard to come by. Even Josephine's own quarters – nice as they are – don't quite provide the amount of silence she usually needs in order to let her thoughts wind down after a long day. Not anymore, at least, now that they've enough numbers for there to be traffic at all times in most areas. The topmost floors of the northeastern corner are, however, still empty, and so that's where she retreats to; usually with a novel that's familiar enough to her mind that enjoying it doesn't truly require thought.  
  
Maintaining the emotional distance that any successful ambassador requires is becoming... ever more difficult, Josephine admits to herself; suppressing a sigh as she reaches a landing and abandons the stairwell in favor of a hallway. Difficult, because there are a lot of genuinely good people that she needs to interact with on a near-daily basis; brave men and women who - as a direct result of her actions – throw themselves into danger in the name of political favor.  
  
Caring makes it harder to ask - to expect - and certainly harder to not dwell on the ones who never return. And dwelling is something that she can ill afford; if she's to perform her duties with any degree of competence, she cannot worry about the blood that stains her hands, however removed it is. A certain measure of distance must be maintained; for the sake of both the Inquisition as a whole, as well as her own sanity.  
  
She needs this silence; this utter lack of sound that surrounds her as she walks down the corridor on intentionally silent feet. Needs it to decompress, to sort through the attachments and lock them away in small, mental boxes until she can function again in the morning.  
  
She only wishes the largest box of them all didn't have the Inquisitor's name on it, because in that, there is definitely danger. Of several kinds.  
  
"Dearest, not-quite-cousin of mine," a low, exasperated voice sounds, and Josephine freezes in place while simultaneously pinpointing it as coming from behind a door not five steps ahead; closed, but sagging on its hinges and therefore not shut as tightly as it could be. "Please, for the sake of whatever you prefer, use the fleshy portion below your back the way it was intended and _sit down_. The floors are worn enough without you pacing grooves into them."  
  
There's a brief period of total silence after that, and while Master Pavus' address makes it clear that he's talking to Inquisitor Trevelyan, the noise that eventually comes does sound an awful lot like Seeker Penthaghast.  
  
”You suck,” is the decidedly surly reply, which – in turn – is followed by a long, feminine groan over the sound of male laughter. ”Oh, Maker – not you too!”  
  
”You do tend to walk yourself into these things,” Master Pavus notes, and sounds quite amused.  
  
There's another one of those noises – really, she _must_ have learned that from Seeker Penthaghast – and then the squeak of springs that Josephine knows well; from sitting down in a chair that's a little too old, and a little too dusty.  
  
“Of course,” the Inquisitor grumbles. “Why wouldn't I? I'm already providing entertainment to the heavens; why not throw in a few laughs for all the normal people, too.”  
  
”Not normal,” is the correction. ”Merely common; much like being attracted only to the opposite gender.”  
  
”Right pair of deviants, then; you and I,” Trevelyan sighs, and the implication is enough to make Josephine's eyes widen while her grip on the book tightens.  
  
Maker, she really shouldn't be listening. Clearly, this isn't a conversation meant for the ears of others, and so Josephine turns; gauging the distance back to the stairwell and remaining as silent as possible as she begins to move away.  
  
”I'm still not convinced that our good Lady Ambassador is quite as 'common' as you think her to be,” stops her mid-step, and only years of practice in maintaining her diplomatic facade keeps the book from dropping to the floor with a resounding thud. “I've seen the way she smiles at you.”

And now her ears are burning. Stars, but she thought she was more subtle than that, based on the lack of reaction.  
  
“Dorian, she's our chief diplomat. Smiling at people is pretty much part of the job description.”  
  
Alternately, Josephine surmises as she bites back a sigh, perhaps the Inquisitor merely took one too many hits to the head.  
  
“That does it!” The low smack of a flat hand – either against a thigh or the wall; she can't quite tell – accompanies the disgruntled words. “We are finding you a helmet,” he decrees, and Josephine almost – almost – laughs.  
  
“Phbbt,” is the concise response, and really, she thought the Inquisitor had learned better than that. “I'm not that dense, thank you.”  
  
Oh, yes she is.  
  
“Oh, yes you are,” Master Pavus echoes unknowingly, and Josephine hides her smile behind one hand as she now leans back against the wall.  
  
She is the one being discussed, after all.  
  
“Suppose that you're right, then,” Trevelyan offers, though the tone of her voice makes it clear just how unlikely she considers that to be. “Suppose that the... interest... is mutual. What then?”  
  
“What then?” comes the disbelieving reply. “Plenty, ideally, but certainly nothing as long as you keep smashing face-first into walls of your own making. Frankly, I'm shocked that your nose is as even as it is!”  
  
“Dorian.” Low, and just a little reproving. “I'm serious. Even if we did form some sort of... closer relationship, those tend to come with-- with expectations. What--” Pause, and another soft noise, though this one sounds... despondent, somehow. Resigned, even, as the springs squeak again and Trevelyan's voice muffles further; as if she were holding her head in her hands. “I can't fake or force that sort of interest.”  
  
“Why should you?” is the gentle question. “Why not simply talk about it? Tell her, like you have me?”  
  
“Right.” A scoff. “Because the whole Herald, Inquisitor and Fadewalker business just hasn't quite managed to fill up my quota of abnormality.”  
  
“Uncommonality,” Master Pavus counters again, and while Josephine isn't entirely sure that's a word, she appreciates – and silently seconds – the sentiment. Even if she still has no idea what on earth they're talking about. “You're hardly average, Amicus, but you're certainly not a freak, either.”  
  
“Dorian.” The name is an absolutely exasperated groan, this time. “Romance is all about--”  
  
“-- the heart,” he interrupts. “Granted, I personally find the body to be a great deal of fun, but if you don't, what's wrong with that?”  
  
“It's not normal.”  
  
“Common.”  
  
“Dorian!”  
  
“Fartcakes!” In the exact same tone, too, and Josephine only barely manages to withhold a choked sound that's halfway surprise and halfway startled amusement.  
  
She won't be having any cakes tonight, however.  
  
“... I am going to bean you in the back of the head with a rotten orange when you least expect it.”  
  
“I look forward to your attempt,” is the unconcerned reply. “Or perhaps not, since that isn't the side you'll be aiming for. Really, though, do stop worrying yourself into such a tizzy. It's so unbecoming, not to mention entirely baseless until proven otherwise.”  
  
“Baseless?” Trevelyan's voice is rising in volume and pitch both. “What d-- 'Oh, excuse me, Lady Montilyet, would you mind terribly tying yourself to me in spite of no sexual intimacy whatsoever?',” she pseudo-asks just a tad shrilly, and Josephine has to bite her lip to keep from answering out loud.  
  
She resumes her silent trek back towards the stairwell, though, because the argument continues behind her and probably will for a while. Interrupting it isn't really an option; going by the Inquisitor's unusually pessimistic view on the matter, she would be embarrassed at best, and mortified to the point of fleeing at worst.  
  
This will require patience, and, admittedly, less subtlety than she's been displaying previously. A touch more overt on her part, then, Josephine decides; a little more obvious, and if need be, increasingly more so until even the Inquisitor can't possibly miss it. But not now; not yet.   
  
She does, however, unlock that one box in her mind.


End file.
